Chicoma Mountain is the highest peak in the Jemez Mountains, northwest of Santa Fe in northern New Mexico. The range is actually the remnants of an ancient volcano that once may have stood as much as 20,000 feet high, and blew itself apart over many eruptions many millions of years ago. The Jemez Mountains are arranged in a rough circular shape, with its main peaks, ridges and canyons arranged in a radial pattern, all emanating away from its center and ancient caldera, the grand Valles Caldera. Volcanic activity never really ended: many peaks within the Valles Caldera are upthrust domes of lava, literally blobs of lava that rose to the surface then cooled, forming huge rounded summits sprinkling the gigantic caldera, which measures roughly 10-12 miles in diameter. Although large eruptions of ash and lava are extremely unlikely today, the area still exhibits its volcanic past, with many natural hot springs and seeps throughout the region. The landscape is stunningly beautiful: the Valles Caldera, for 140 years a private ranch with its roots as a 17th-Century Spanish Land Grant, is now protected as the Valles Caldera National Preserve, managed by the United States Federal Government. Nearby Bandelier National Monument exhibits some of the amazing canyon and cliff topography of the area, while much of the rest of the region falls under BLM, state, Indian and private control.

Chicoma Mountain itself rises to the north of the Valles Caldera, visible from the city of Espanola about a half-hour north of Santa Fe. Access into the range is via Santa Fe National Forest Road 144, which starts in Espanola off of highway US-84, just north of Fairview Road, one of the main routes through downtown Espanola. Forest Road 144 runs up, across and down the northern tier of peaks of the Jemez Mountains; Chicoma Mountain is roughly 25 miles from Espanola along this road. At its highest, the road reaches 10,800 feet elevation on the northern flank of Chicoma Mountain, roughly a mile from the summit. Quite ironically, a hike to the summit of Chicoma is fairly short, if one starts at this 10,800-foot point. This was my plan. I was on the end of a six-day tour of New Mexico in which I had climbed five other peaks, saving mighty Chicoma for last. I viewed Chicoma as a fine way to end the trip, with a short hike of maybe a couple of hours all that was needed to gain the top. I came into the area from the north, after a camp and hike of Cerro Vista in the Sangre de Cristo Range south of Taos. I arrived in Espanola about noon, but I chose not to drive toward Chicoma just yet. Storm clouds had developed, a result of the monsoon pattern in this area this time of year. Instead, I killed some time in Espanola and Santa Fe, playing tourist for a few hours and catching a movie. Around 4:30 p.m. the big storms seemed to be breaking up, so I started north and west, planning to drive all the way in to Chicoma and find a spot to camp for the night.

The drive up Forest Road 144 is scenic, and the dirt and gravel road is well maintained, other than some washboarding. From Espanola the road works its way up some hills to top out on a broad elevated bench of pinon and juniper woodland. It then turns north then west again as it contours across the south face of Santa Clara Peak. The road is good here, but narrow. I concentrated more on the driving than the views. Roughly half-way in, the road improves (loses the washboarding) and enters into higher-elevation forest, and Chicoma Mountain is often in view for the remaining 12-13 miles. The road twists and turns on the east slopes of Chicoma and finally achieves its highpoint, as mentioned before, at 10,800 feet directly north of Chicoma’s summit. I pulled into a small pullout near a cattle-grate and fence at the Forest Boundary, and parked. It was 6:00 p.m., and the storms had nearly cleared completely out! This was unexpected as they usually linger into the night. I immediately considered hiking the peak now, then returning to my truck to camp. I figured I had sunlight until about 8:30 p.m. at the latest, and the hike shouldn’t take me more than 90 minutes at my usual pace. Conditions were magnificent and I was drawn to the idea of a late-afternoon/dusk hike of the peak. Obviously, I was taking a chance by starting so late. Furthermore, there is no trail from where I started. It’s a straight-shot up about 750 vertical feet of heavily forested slope, but only about a mile. My pack consisted of some water (two 500 ml bottles), no food, a jacket, a map with waypoints, my GPS, a compass, a flashlight, some extra batteries, my cell phone and my wallet. I started up the slope at 6:25 p.m.

At first I followed the fence line, figuring it might go all the way to the top and offer an easy navigation device, but the fence stopped after just a few feet (the fence marks the boundary between the National Forest and a private land grant). I continued straight up the slope. It was steep at first but then the gradient lessened. There were some sections of downed trees and even one small meadow, but by and large it was heavy dense forest cover the whole way up. Toward the top I found some small blue ribbons tied to tree branches. Interesting… these seemed to go where I was headed so I followed them. Sure enough they led me right to the top. By 7:00 p.m. I had summitted Chicoma Mountain, entering onto its bare summit and walking to the large cairn at its very top. The sun was low in the west, and it lit up everything in a beautiful dusky glow. I didn’t stay long, just long enough for a photograph. I tagged the cairn then immediately turned right around to retrace my steps. I was confident I could find the ribbons again, and in my haste I didn’t take a compass bearing.

Walking down the slope I didn’t immediately find the blue ribbons, but even then I was not too concerned. Looking at the map the road cuts all the way across the north slope of Chicoma. All I had to do was descend pretty much on any northerly bearing until I hit the road. Even if I came to the road separate from my truck, it would be an easy task to walk back to it anyway, so I was not too concerned; I had a lot of error room. The only rule I had was to not veer too far west on the hike down, since I could potentially find myself deep in some canyons away from the road if I went that way. So I descended, walking briskly down the slopes and making very good time, all the while assuming I was heading north, nore or less. I had dropped about 400 feet in 15 minutes when I came upon some cliffs. These were unexpected, so I adjusted my route and veered to my right, thinking I was angling slightly east of north. As yet I had not taken a bearing of my travel and was assuming (incorrectly as it turned out) that I was trending mostly north when in fact I had come off the summit on a more easterly bearing than I intended. It was only about 7:20 p.m. and I still had about another hour of usable daylight left, so I wasn’t too worried but I was starting to get concerned. Nothing was looking quite right, and I kept running into steep rocky cliffs, constantly forcing me to re-adjust my track. In doing so I almost always veered right, each time thinking I was veering more easterly when in fact by now after about four or five "easterly" adjustments, I was veering more to the southeast now.

After almost 45 minutes I knew something was seriously amiss. Given the time it took me to ascend, my descent should not have been longer than my ascent time. I was utterly confounded by the absence of the road. Based on my descent rate and my presumed northerly bearing, I should have hit the road twenty minutes ago! Finally, at yet another cliff band I stopped and brought out the GPS unit. In the thick tree cover it took awhile for it to lock in on satellites and I admit, I grew impatient. Sunlight was waning and I made the foolish decision to put away the GPS and get moving, figuring the road had to be somewhere down there. So with the remaining 15 minutes or so of dusky light, I descended more, thinking the road was nearby. I daresay I probably dropped another 500 feet in this time. I was very worried and upset, and it was apparent that I was lost. The acceptance of this fact was very bitter to me. True black of night would be here in minutes, and I had lost my gamble. I finally did a smart thing and sat down in a small clearing and forcibly calmed myself. It was probably nearing 9 p.m. by this time. There would be no moon so I would have essentially near-total darkness tonight. Fortunately the skies were mostly clear. Some lights of a city could be seen. Given I was now completely turned around, I did not immediately pick up on the fact I was looking at Espanola the city, due east of me. This would have been telling had I realized it.

I sat in my clearing for maybe 30 minutes and assessed my situation. I had to consciously keep myself calm; the urge to panic and run was still in me. I thought of my wife. I looked around my area and got to thinking about a shelter. I brought out my GPS and this time, with all the time in the world available to me now, let it sit until after 10 minutes or so it locked onto enough satellites to give me a position. My map was a poorly-copied topo from the website lacking UTM clicks or any lat-long scaling, but I had fortuitously written in some UTM positions for points along the road. I also got out my cell phone, which had a little juice still, and surprisingly, a signal - barely. I decided to swallow my pride and called the Espanola 911, letting them know of my situation, giving them my UTM position as well. They would contact the New Mexico Search and Rescue, to be put on standby. From my own experience in SAR, I knew they would not be here for many hours at a minimum. I was in good shape and I had enough gear to keep me warm for the night. I was going to have to gut this one out at the very least. I sat and rested. The forest was utterly quiet and actually quite peaceful. A small cell dropped a little rain for five minutes or so; I stayed dry by huddling under a big tree. Otherwise it was a clear, starry night, temps in the 40s and 50s. After an hour, nearing 10 p.m., I decided to at least get moving, to right this serious wrong.

The UTM I had written on my map was for a point on the road with the junction of the old trail to Chicoma summit, which no longer exists due to downfall and no maintenance. I entered this UTM into my GPS and used it as a waypoint, and was surprised (a) where I actually was and (b) that I was less than an air-mile to this point on the road. I had ended up about 1,900 feet down the southeastern slopes of Chicoma, well down into Gallina Creek Canyon (with a nearly unobstructed view east into Espanola). I was nearly two miles from my truck (straight-line distance). I have to admit: I was shocked how far off I had gotten myself and appalled, too. I wasn't too happy with myself at this very moment, to say the least.

Using the road waypoint as my destination, it showed as being about 0.9 mile to the northeast, maybe 20 degrees off true North. With my compass I took a bearing, followed north, walked around numerous trees and after maybe five minutes, re-assessed my position: I had knocked off 4/100ths of a mile to the road waypoint. Woo hoo!! But at least this was progress, so I kept at this for awhile, going very slowly, each time trimming the distance off little bit by little bit. After about 45 minutes of this my phone rang! It was a Mr. Peter Dickson, the incident commander for NMSAR, based in Los Alamos. He had been apprised of my situation by the Espanola police. I told him what I was up to and he confirmed that I was on a correct path, so to speak. We agreed to talk again once I hit the road. In the meantime, he'd keep his team on stand-by. I thought this was fair. Heartened by this talk I charged up the slope fairtly fast, gaining 300 feet to re-meet with the main ridge once again, knocking off maybe 0.15 mile in the process. By now I was still maybe a half-mile from the road, and it was pushing 11 p.m. You'd think salvation was close at hand...

I was most definitely on the main east-west trending ridge of the range, now due east of Chicoma's summit. The aforementioned trail should have run right in here somewhere but I never saw any trace of it. Instead I saw some of the most dense and dreadful tree downfall I have ever seen. Whatever storm did this must have been a monster! The last half-mile to the road was spent dodging all sorts of trees on their sides, often needing to walk around them, climb over them or often, under them. Each variation in my travel needed to be re-checked since it was so easy to get off my north bearing. Bear in mind all I had was a flashlight to guide the way. The ridge here was so broad that I had to be conscious not to drop down into any side canyons. I was also concerned about spooking some big animals, e.g. bears. However I was making so much noise I think I scared off every creature in the county that night. Clambering up, around, underneath and across big rotting giant trees on their sides was very tedious, slow-going, messy and frustrating, and often I slipped, fell or bashed myself into branches and trunks and all-else. Finally, I barged through one set of trees and there it was - the effing road! It was now about 12:30 a.m., and I stumbled out onto this wonderful sight and sat there like a zombie, so grateful to be out of the forest. It didn't matter to me that I was still looking at over 2.5 miles of meandering road to get back to my truck. The thrill and joy was wonderful. However, try as I might, I had no signal to buzz Peter. I sat for awhile and even contemplated snoozing on the road and walking back in the morning light, but I got cold and bored fast and figured I might as well get moving. So I did.

I was so tired I walked like a stumbling drunk, lurching forward and doing all I could to move in a straight line. I got into some sort of a rhythm and after maybe 10 or 15 minutes my phone beeped: a text message from Peter. I was in one of those random spots with a signal so I called him and gave him my updates. I did not need rescuing any more, but I have to admit I had some doubts if I had the energy to actually make it back to my truck - the 2.5 miles seemed like 25 in my head. I was forever grateful when Peter, without much debate, simply announced he was coming up; I could not express my appreciation enough. Realistically, though, we were looking at still three hours for him to get to me. After hanging up I resumed my slow walk up the road to my truck. By now, tired as I was, and also very thirsty, I realized that things were not dire at all. The weather was quite pleasant, I was on a road and worst-case, Peter would help out if I couldn't make the final walk back. My flashlight by now had mostly died, so I turned it off and after allowing my eyes to adjust, I realized I could make out the road with just the dim starlight! There was no chance of me falling off any cliff: the road was wide and bermed and the slopes very gentle. I just kept walking, taking breaks every twenty minutes or so, some breaks stretching to twenty or thirty minutes as I rested and even dozed. Mentally, I was a blank: my mind was thinking about nothing. Only after about two hours did I think to look at my GPS again. I had also entered my truck's parking position in as a waypoint, and I was truly shocked (in the good sense) when it showed it as being only 0.04 miles away, in other words, about 200-250 feet. I had no idea! I brought out my keys and pressed the unlock button and had to laugh when I saw the lights all turn on! Holy freaking smokes I had made it. It was 2:45 a.m., over 8 hours after setting out for my hike, I was back to my truck. I had made it. I quickly changed into drier clothes and got some drinks. I was so grateful and happy.

Peter came rumbling up at 3 a.m. exactly. I was elated to see him, so very happy and thankful that he had come up to assist me. I apologized for my stupidity on the mountain and he would have none of that. He explained he did the same thing years ago himself. He was extremely nice and we spent about a half-hour together. I gave him a full account of what I had done, filled out some paperwork, did a quick self-medical check (lots of dinged shins with blood, as I discovered). Once he was satisfied I was good to go where I was, he got moving back down the road. Although I had essentially performed a self-rescue, I must give considerable thanks to him and his team for being on stand-by to help. It was knowing that I had them in a worst-case scenario that I think helped me summon the energy for the hike up the last few miles to my truck. I was very nearly convinced I didn’t have the energy to do it.

I stayed awake until almost 4 a.m., partly out of adrenaline I think. I slept for about 3 hours in the bed of my truck, by which time it was daylight again and some other vehicles were rumbling up the road. I decided to pack up and drive down the road into Espanola. There, I stopped for a breakfast and texted Peter I was down off the mountain. I also received a text from Beth, who reported that she had stayed up the whole night, working off nervous energy for some "unknown, unidentifiable reason" (her words). I texted that I was safe, down, and “had a story to tell”. My cell phone had no more juice afterwards. I spent the day driving about 400 miles, taking a detour through Zuni Country, eventually spending the night in St. Johns, Arizona. There (and after I had re-juiced my phone), I called my wife to tell her the whole story, and she told me hers, and that she had had some gut feeling “something wasn’t right”. I told her that I had concentrated my thoughts on her when darkness fell, that it had calmed me a lot and that it may have created some extra-sensory connection between us, separated by 500 miles. I very much believe that she stayed up on my behalf, offering me energy, love and support through this inchoate channel, and that it had a direct bearing on my getting out okay. I honestly believe this to be true.

Back home in Chandler the next day I gave another full account. By this time all the adrenaline had worn off, and I had a long proper night’s sleep too. All the little injuries were now obvious: two big gashes on my legs from the tree branches, a big blister on my foot, and pulled muscles in my left quadriceps muscle. The emotion came forth and I broke down, realizing now just how lucky I had been and how lucky I am now.

I freely admit that I made very serious errors in judgment, which I should know better. This experience was humbling and chastening to me. I am not proud that I got lost, but feel fortunate I had the proper tools and know-how to use them to extract myself. I feel like I was taught some lessons, and given the hiking equivalent of a behind-the-shed ass-whupping. What follows are my thoughts of my hike:

• Obviously I should have taken a bearing immediately when on the summit coming down. I have always had a strong sense of dead reckoning, which I have grown reliant on over the years. But in this case, it failed me completely. In the thick forest all visual cues were the same, and my gut led me astray.

• Calm down! I should have stopped sooner, when I realized something was not right, and been patient about pegging my location and taking a bearing. As I said above, I gambled and stayed moving, against better sound judgment. At the time I thought I was acting rationally. I didn’t feel like I was in any panic but in retrospect I see that I had to have been in some form. How else can I explain that I descended 1,900 feet (when my truck was just 750 feet down the slope)? How else can I explain that I did this for over an hour? I wish I could view myself in 3rd person – I think I would see a man essentially ‘running’ down the slope, hoping for the road but really having no idea what he was doing other than hoping he’d get lucky.

• Trust the compass! I was so shocked to finally see where I ended up on the map. So much so that at first I refused to believe it. I felt the GPS was in error. The compass pointed properly but I didn’t believe it at first either. Even after knowing I was lost my gut still felt I should head "that way", the direction I had been traveling. I had to consciously force myself to abandon my gut feeling here and trust the compass. The compass has no brain, it never lies. It just knows north.

• It is so easy to lose bearings in the trees. Even when I followed a bearing, I would sometimes correct to get around a downed tree or rock, then find that I was now hiking literally 180 degrees off my intended bearing. I had turned myself around. Even when conscious of my need to stay on track, it was so easy to get off track.

• Be calm and rational. In retrospect, I had a lot going for me: I had all the proper gear items, I was not injured, and the weather was pretty good. I had many years experience in the mountains on my own, plus seven years with Maricopa County SAR, so I had all the right training. I just had to calm myself down and use it.

I write this about a week after the fact, after some time to think about it (and assuredly I will be thinking of this for a long, long time). The forest was kind to me. Whatever big animals lurk there left me alone. Bear was my only concern, but I was making so much noise I think I scared off every bear in the county. I had a pristine night sky with billions of stars and a few meteorites (the Perseids). I had the competence of Peter Dickson and NMSAR at my back, and I had the love and support of my wife carrying me through this ordeal.

My infinite thanks to Peter and NMSAR, and infinite love to my wife.